"I s'pose tha'lt ha' one after a bit," she said, "when tha'rt not so short as tha art now. Ivverybody's short i' these toimes."
She seated herself upon the stone coping of the next grave, her elbow on her knee, a small, weird figure in the uncertain light.
"I allus did loike a big head-stone," she remarked, reflectively. "Theer's summat noice about a big white un wi' black letters on it. I loike a white un th' best, an' ha' th' letters cut deep, an' th' name big, an' a bit o' poitry at th' eend:
'Stranger, a moment linger near,
An' hark to th' one as moulders here;
Thy bones, loike mine, shall rot i' th' ground,
Until th' last awful trumpet's sound;
Thy flesh, loike mine, fa' to decay,
For mon is made to pass away.'
Summat loike that. But yo' see it ud be loike to cost so much. What wi' th' stone an' paint an' cuttin', I should na wonder if it would na coom to th' matter o' two pound—an' then theer's th' funeral."